Cat, Mouse, Hellhound
by Faith229
Summary: Jim isn't as dead as he thought he was, and it might have something to do with this odd man who calls himself Crowley and is willing to offer Jim something he wants very much...The Man himself.


**Just a ficlet I had to get out of my system. Set the day after the Fall.**

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><p>He woke up with a start. This was…this was <em>not right<em>. He was _supposed _to be on the roof of Barts, bringing dear old Sherly to his downfall. And then he remembered the gun. Oh, how foolish that had been, removing himself from the audience. But enough now. Now he had to find a way to get out of this…this…coffin? He was sure he was in a coffin. He ran his hands over the interior. Silk on the sides, hard wood above him. Of course his Sebbie had made him comfortable, even in the afterlife. And then the slightly terrifying thought that he may actually be six feet under the ground hit him. He pressed against the wood. Solid, although he couldn't tell whether this was due to the wood itself or the heavy mass of dirt upon it. He was just about ready to start panicking when the damned thing _opened_, the daylight burning his eyes. Before he could close his eyes, however, he saw a figure looming above him. The opener of the casket.

"Sebbie?" Jim asked, his voice croaky. "Sebbie, dear, is that you?" He sat up, still shielding his eyes from the light. A low chuckle came from the figure. Too low. Decidedly _not_ his Sebastian.

"Seb's gone. Finito. Went with a bang though…well, figuratively. I mean we're not allowed to do that anymore, not since the 1600's…" said the man. Bit of a cockney accent. Had an odd swagger to it. "Sends his regards though."

Jim dared to open his eyes. Dark hair that matched dark stubble, hard eyes and a suit that even he coveted. He also realised that they were in Sebastian's flat. That now had a coffin in the living room.

"Who exactly are you then?" Jim asked, swinging his legs over the side of the coffin.

"The name's Crowley." He said, offering a hand to shake. Jim took it cautiously.

"Fine then…Crowley. Tell me, whatever happened to Sherlock Holmes? You know, while I've been out for the count." Jim said. He wasn't sure whether it was the effect of a successful-and-yet-not suicide or the man standing before him, but for the first time since his early teens, James Moriarty felt powerless. There was something incredibly dark about this man, darker than anything Jim had ever encountered. Crowley let out a chuckle.

"Straight back to business then, I see. What, not curious about why you're alive and kicking? Or where Seb is?" Crowley sighed heavily. "It's only been a day, but you got what you wanted. Sherlock Holmes dead, disgraced, and most importantly…" Crowley grinned at him. "Defeated. Another challenger beaten, Jamesy boy. Of course, we both know that isn't what you really wanted, was it?"

Jim hopped out of the casket and brushed down his suit. He circled the man like prey, gathering confidence.

"Are you offering yourself up to the chopping board as a challenger then, Mr Crowley?" He sneered, glowering at the man like a cat.

"Quite the opposite, actually. _You're _going to offer yourself up to_ me._" Crowley flicked a wrist, and before he had time to realise what was happening Jim had been forced into an armchair on the opposite side of the room.

"I know what you want. You want Sherlock Holmes, your favourite conquest, up and running again. You like it too much. Nobody else has that same…pizzaz…quite like Sherly. Cat and mouse, all the way to the bloody grave and back again. But not like this." Crowley walked slowly over to Jim, who was beginning to grin like a madman.

"What are you?" He asked. Crowley chuckled again.

"Never you mind, princess. But…I'll make you a deal. Quite like the one Sebbie made not half an hour ago."

"Ahh, yes…Where _is_ darling Sebastian?" Jim asked, his confidence growing even more still as he bared teeth like knives in a smile at the odd man.

"Upstairs, in the bedroom. Well, and the bathroom. And the hallway…Oh, and I think a little fell _down _the stairs, actually. Messy pups, I really do need to get them housetrained…" Crowley shook some dust off of his sleeve as Jim stared back at him in horror. "I _was_ going to offer him the usual, ten years of blah blah blah before the one way ticket downtown, but of course he jumped in like the lovestruck puppy you always thought he was and offered his soul on a plate there and then! I mean, I could hardly refuse, could I?"

"You really think I'll agree to that? I know that I could probably give Charles Manson a run for his money, but do you really think I'm that stupid?"

"Give over, you've been dying to make a deal with the devil since you were thirteen years old. Like a badge of honour to you. I mean, I might not be Lucifer, but still…the bravado is there. And I'd give you ten years, I promise you that now. If not, what's the point? _Think _about it, James. Ten years of chasing Sherlock Holmes round the bend, over and over. Although try not to be so insouciant this time, you've run out of devoted lovers to bring you back when you decide to put a bullet in your brain." Crowley grinned down at him, all teeth and little sincerity.

"So…what do you say, James Moriarty: World's Only Consulting Criminal? Make a deal with Hell, seal it with a kiss and go back to being the big, clever cat after your favourite sneaky bugger of a mouse?" Crowley offered. Jim nodded slowly.

"Yes. Yes, I'll…I'll do it." He whispered, bringing Crowley's face down to his.

A few miles away, in a very familiar morgue, a body jerked back to life on a metal gurney.


End file.
